


The Lokane Drabbles

by NextToSomething



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Consensual Infidelity, Dark, Dark Character, Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/M, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NextToSomething/pseuds/NextToSomething
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Lokane drabbles; a work in progress. No real update schedule, rhyme, or reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Another Stolen Relic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [audreyii_fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyii_fic/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **startraveller776 asked:** Prompt: Lokane with conflate, effete, and vitreous. XD

"Shut up, Loki." 

Jane's voice crackles with the spent build-up of electricity his near constant presence kindles in her. Whatever torture Thor was suffering, she was not entirely sure it could be worse than this. The poisonous thought cows her further and she hunches all the more over the singular book she has left. She isn’t sure Thor is alive, even. Not after the terrific flash-bang that followed Loki shedding his Odin-guise. Guessing Thor’s fate is no worse than suffering the almost constant company of the False King of Asgard is pettish at best. 

At worst, it is monstrous. 

“That’s no way to speak to your king, little bird.”

The endearment coils heavy as the fetters of an anchor in her stomach, laced with the iron of his voice. A bird indeed, throwing herself bodily against the vitreous walls of her cage and breaking only her spirit, never her neck.

He must so enjoy imprisoning her in his own cell from punishment past.

“You aren’t my king.” She licks her lips, smooth and healthy. Not chapped and cracked like a prisoner’s ought be. He keeps her well, the bastard.

“No, perhaps not.” Long fingers pluck the book from her hands, and it vanishes. Like all the others. She has none left.

“But I am Thor’s king, and you belong to Thor, do you not? Am I not your king, then, after a fashion?”

Fingers that had moments before magicked away her last tether to sanity spins a simple band on her marriage finger and the metal grows painful cold against her skin. She tries not to cling to the present tense of his words. _I am Thor’s king.You belong to Thor._

He’s alive, still, and he will come for her. Mjölnir could surely shatter this glass box Loki displays her in and she’ll be free. She’ll see the sky again. 

“I don’t belong to anyone.” She hopes her words carry the meaning she intends. He may keep her, but he does not posses her. Not yet. Though he is the last thing she sees when she closes her eyes and her waking thought, he does not yet have her. _Does he?_

She stands, and moves as quickly as her intricate dress allows to look out upon the glass prison peopled with those that would call Loki traitor. The effete garment is much more cumbersome than the dresses Frigga outfitted her in upon her first arrival in Asgard. It means to keep her from running. 

“Oh, my Jane, I believe you do.” 

His cold hands clamp as manacles on her upper arms and no matter how he presses into her, his lean frame offers no warmth. He lays lips along the curve of her ear and the heat of his voice is enough to chase away the cool. Manicured nails bite into her palms as she steels herself against the revolting inclination to lean into his mouth. 

“You don’t love me.” Her voice is too small for the great of the room.

“Indeed I do not, little bird. You mustn’t conflate that sentimental weakness with--”

“Avarice?” 

He squeezes painful tight before backing away. The hot that rushes over her when he leaves her should be comforting. She should not be so inhuman as to enjoy the cold. 

“You’ve nothing left to read.” His voice, like the clunking into place of the ancient tumblers of an enduring lock.

“What shall we do now?”


	2. Well Read

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for **audreyii_fic** because she was having a lousy day. I hate lousy days.
> 
> Inspiration: **startraveller776:** Lokane. With the word porn. And dark themes because it's Audrey: aphotic, insidious, coquet. 
> 
> And this Crimson Peak picture: [](http://s1068.photobucket.com/user/Nexttos0mething/media/tumblr_n57ijnKgZG1qe8a0fo1_500.png.html)

“Jane Foster.”

His words ring out across the space before the door can even click closed behind her. Her heart jumps within her chest at his rasping voice.

“How—” she says, before she can stay her arrant tongue.

“How, indeed,” he drawls, and Jane steps fully into the dim light of the room. The library is vast, intimidating, yet only a single pillar is lit. It sits, dripping, in a far window as rain pelts against the pane, and the aphotic brother of the great Thor Odinson is cast in the light that suits him best: crepuscular and shadowed.

The flicker of the weak light sets his already angular features into sharp relief and he seems more hollow than tangible and Jane, poor, small, Jane feels all the more insubstantial by comparison.

“I can smell you, girl.”

The skin of Jane’s neck tightens at his almost explicit remark, and she regrets intensely her midnight pilgrimage to the ancient library.

“And, now,” he says, his voice dipping lower, his tone more sandy and dry with each syllable, “Now, you are afraid.”

Her hands clutch at the sleeves of her nightgown as she hugs herself against the mounting terror his impossible assessments evoke.

“I can smell that, too.”

Her skin crawls.

“It is sweet.”

His head does not move, and were she able to see his eyes, they would seem fixed, staring.

But of course, behind the smoked glass of his dark spectacles are milky, unfocused, sightless eyes that do nothing but turn the stomachs of those that might be hapless enough to bear witness.

Loki Odinson, The Blind Bastard.

Loki Odinson, The Keeper of the Stars.

The irony is not lost on Jane that the man who knows the secrets she so covets is blind to their celestial glory. He knows their science, and she knows their magic. 

She wishes it were the other way around.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jane whispers, and she knows his keen ears hear her.

He chuckles.

“It wouldn’t do, someone of the house finding you here in naught but your shift.”

“How—” she says again, and actually bites her fist at the careless question. She doesn’t want to know the answer.

“I can hear you, too, you insipid girl. The fine dresses in which your husband drapes you create a much denser sound than that scrap of muslin you wear.”

He smiles, and licks his lips.

“It is so thin, I can hear the brush of your inner thighs as you walk, Jane Foster.”

Heat creeps over her, originating in the location he so baldly mentions, and spreads insidious, lecherous paths over her treasonous nerves.

“I came for a book, Loki,” she hisses, though her bare feet navigate her to the desk where this near phantom of a man sits rather than to the stacks.

“Then you best change your path.” he says, that dark smile still tugging as his lips. “Your straining eyes will find no purchase in the tomes I peruse.”

Long, spindly fingers play over the pages of his book, deciphering the code hidden within the embossed puckers and dimples marching neat lines across the page. A new convenience, out of France. He told her what it was called, once.

Brale. Brail. She can’t recall.

“Or if you prefer, come sit upon my lap, sister-mine, and I would read you this newest addition to my brother’s ever growing collection.”

The slow path of her feet falter, and she tries to tame the quake behind her sternum.

“No,” she says, voice feeble as the candlelight. “Though I thank you for your offer.”

She instantly regrets her words.

“I’m sure you do, my obliging girl.” His spidery fingers flick the book shut with a snap, and Jane jumps. “Though you thanked me plenty our last meeting.”

Her face is hot, and her fingers ache with her crushing grip on her gown, her sanity.

He stands, and walks a perfect path to her. He does not falter in the waning light. He is not unsure.

“You may think your endearing coquet lost on a blind audience.”

He steps close to her, his towering height made all the more apparent at his refusal to tip his head down to her. He looks over her head, no, never looks, and she feels more inconsequential still.

“But I see you better than he would ever dream, Jane Foster.”

A reaching hand wraps threatening-cool around her neck and she hates that he can feel her swallow of unease as well as hear it.

“I have learned the path his eyes take with my mouth and fingers. I have tasted what he thinks he knows, those planes and valleys he believes he has memorized.”

A shaky breath wobbles from between her parted lips.

“Within this very room, I could find you many books that would tout the sensory advantage of touch over sight, if you need further convincing.”

His fingers slide further down her neck.

"Unless you prefer a more tactile lesson."

She shakes her head: a lie.

His hand tightens, and he leans close to her ear.

“He will never know the secrets I possess, will he, my darling?”

She agrees, and he can probably smell her surrender anyway.

“No,” she says, and his hand falls from her neck.

Slipping a finger under the collar of her gown, he smiles.

“Then, shall I read to you?”


	3. Riddles in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Crush the Feels" challenge on Tumblr. This is a proper drabble.
> 
> Prompt: "How do you stop loving someone when they stop loving you?"
> 
> **Rated M for reasons. Not a nice Loki.**

“How do you stop loving someone when they stop loving you?”

The words rattle around her head like dice in a bone cup, jumbled and out of order. Loud. Echoing. Discordant in the dim of the room. He asks her in much the same way a hatter would ask how a raven is like a writing desk.

He picks the weirdest moments for his riddles, his games.

She opens her mouth to respond and he laves the flat of his tongue up her sternum, coaxing her to arch to meet him.

“W-what?”

He’s moving faster, getting her there much more quickly than his usual. He likes to play with her, elongate her exquisite build to release much longer than is decent or necessary.

She loves it.

But now, just now, he is pummeling her to an edge he would usually spend hours (days) persuading her towards. Oh, god. _Oh, god_.

“How—” his voice catches, the punishing push of his hips falters. _Oh, he’s close, too._ “—do you stop loving someone when they stop loving you?”

Her world begins to stitch together, focusing to one wonderful/terrible pinprick of sensation where their bodies join. _Almost, almost_.

“I don’t know, Loki.” Her voice is more air than vibration. More vowel than consonant. It’s never been like this and, _fuckfuck_ , she’s almost— “How?”

He yanks her off of her back and into his arms as she splinters, loudly, lewdly. His mouth drinks the liquid sound of her release, and he smiles against her lips. With a final jerk he meets her at the crash site, violently coming.

And drops her suddenly onto the mattress, knocking the breath from her aching lungs.

And she’s looking upside down from the foot of the bed to see someone standing in the doorway that was supposedly weeks from returning.

Thunder rumbles.

Her wild gaze flies back to Loki, _stillinsideher_ , as he _laughs._ He uses his thumb to wipe the wet of her kiss from the corner of his mouth.

But he’s looking at Thor, not at her, when he says, “I don’t know, Jane. I was hoping you could tell me.”


End file.
